


can you hear me?

by galaxymuncher



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, Vegas Days, a redo of sorts of dear god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25046983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxymuncher/pseuds/galaxymuncher
Summary: [please take care when reading this fic]if I scream hard enough, will you come back to me?
Relationships: (kinda) - Relationship, Theodore Decker & Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Kudos: 36





	can you hear me?

The cold air of the desert blew hard against his cheeks, almost cutting them like thin blades. His eyes still watched the road, despite the taxi having long left by now, waiting for the headlights to return...waiting for _him_ to return, as if it were all a funny joke.

This wasn’t a joke.

All at once sensation left him, rising up into the air as he found himself turn away, slumped forward, feet walking mechanically toward a destination he knew but didn’t want to acknowledge. The door was left suspiciously unlocked, a car in the driveway, but not a living soul within the confines of this space.

“Xandra?”

Silence. He was alone. Where she could’ve gone, who knows? Why she was out this late? Also questionable, but then again, who cares. At least now he could ensure he wouldn’t get his ass sent to juvenile detention right away and could sit in peace. With shaking hands Boris wandered in, glancing every which way to make for certain that he was indeed alone.

_‘Where were they again?’_

Cabinets flung open loudly in the echoing kitchen, searching for what he yearned for, something to drink...or something else to take the edge off, whichever presented itself first. Empty, empty, remnants of crumbs for mice to chew, nothing.

“Fucking shit”

Maybe the fridge had something to offer? Last his memory recalled there were leftover beer bottles half full that the two sipped on at some point. Upon opening the door, Boris felt himself blinded momentarily by the bright light, turning his head away with a hand held up to cover his eyes sloppily. One, two, three, he found it bearable again after the initial shock and turned back to finally get a proper look. There seemed to only be some poorly wrapped up leftovers from the grieving party and expired milk sitting where the condiments should be, no drinks, no drugs, _nothing_.

Groaning, the door slammed shut. Frustration washed over him. So that was how it would be then? He’d have to put in an order from a dealer nearby the next day, and after handling that he’d have to figure out what to do about the drinks.

_‘There’s some left somewhere at home...I will get to it...but not tonight’_

Absentmindedly, his fingers twisted his curls around in clockwise circles, eventually stopping just to hold them. Clearly they needed washing, the chlorine made his hair impossible to brush after a few days of not showering, but did he care to make the effort? Nope, not unless he was physically being shoved into the bathroom.

_“Potter! For fucks sake! Let me go!”_

_“Not until you take a fucking shower, you smell like shit”_

_“Ha! You are one to talk! Shit doesn’t fall too far from the dog!”_

_“What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?”_

_“You know what I mean! Now let me go!”_

_“I said no!”_

They had bantered like that for an hour until _he’d_ drawn the water for the shower begrudgingly. Though, that day as he could vaguely recall, _he_ had joined him. It felt weird having another body beside him in the cramped space, almost embarrassing really. He was reminded of being young, someone was washing him in an attempt at a bath, scrubbing him with what he assumed to be a dirty rag, though it could’ve been a sponge, his memory wasn’t the best. Now though, the feeling was different, more intimate than that. Soap ran down his back as hands moved the bar around, getting every hard to reach area.

_“Do you want me to get your hair?”_

_“I can do that, Potter, no need”_

_“Are you sure? Cause your hair is ratty as shit and I’m sure even a professional barber couldn’t fuck up your hair as bad as this---”_

_“Oh for fucks sake, go then!”_

Briefly he heard soft laughter, a cap popping opening, and then suddenly he felt those same fingers running through his wet hair. The sensation was overwhelming, to the point where his eyes snapped shut, trying to block it out to a point. Though, the longer they were there, the harder it was to ignore, eventually finding himself nearly melting into the sensation. Nobody had touched his hair like that before, or after. Each knot _he_ pulled out made him twitch a bit, which only seemed to annoy the other.

_“Hold still, you spaz”_

_“Stop pulling my hair so hard then, you shit!”_

_“I can’t help that your hair is a fucking birds nest! So stop moving or you’re gonna have to deal with this yourself”_

He stopped immediately, only keeping to slight facial expressions that he knew _he_ wouldn’t see. Eventually the whole ordeal was over, his hair free of all knots for the time being. Slowly Boris turned toward the other, looking at _his_ small form covered in steam, noticing how different _he_ looked in the daylight without _his_ glasses on. Fragile, almost as if _he_ were a bird clipped of their wings.

_“What?”_

_“....”_

_“You wanna say something?”_

_“No, sorry, I just forget how stupid you look without glasses”_

A roll of the eyes, typical for _him_ whenever he was annoyed but didn’t want to say anything smart. The two continued to clean off in silence, with Boris sneaking glances every once in a while, sure that _he_ wouldn’t be seen, just to look at _him_ in such a way that he normally wouldn’t take any heed to.

_‘What is wrong with you? You shouldn’t be looking at him like that’_

But he did.

Now he wouldn’t see _him_ again. _He_ was gone, glasses and all.

A sudden pain rushed up his hand, causing him to realize that, in present time, his fist had made harsh contact with the door to the fridge. Drawing his hand back to his chest, Boris trudged out of the kitchen, stomping his way up the stairs until he stood face to face with his room door. Xandra and Larry’s room was nearby, opened to just a crack, stuff strewn about in a maddening haze, one all too familiar to him now. Taking a deep breath, he took the handle in his pulsing hand, turning it while forcefully shoving the door open.

It was dark, as it always was, items of clothing covered parts of the dirtied carpet. The desk sat empty, window opened to a crack, allowing the desert’s cold air to rush in. Letters and paper had flown to join the mess on the floor at this point, if only the breeze weren’t as strong. His feet took him over, making him shut it tight, making sure to lock it, secured. There was only so much of the cold he could handle for tonight.

“Mother fucker should have closed it before he left...idiot”

Sighing to himself, his fingers traced at the pane, noticing the prints sticking against it. There were his own, and _his_ , surely they were there, it was _his_ window after all.

_‘Say his fucking name already’_

Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to form the name in his mind, almost as if a wall were blocking it out. Bringing his hand up once more, shaking, Boris nearly swung it down onto the pane, as if to shatter it into a million pieces. Quickly he made his arm lower back down, forcing it back to his side. No, don’t, not here, not in _his_...not _your_ room.

Walking about the room a bit more, his mind ran a million miles as memories rushed to him. Details so minute he thought they’d be lost to the recesses of oblivion and alcohol filled nights. There were flashes of laughter, of fists flying at each other, bloody, but not filled with malice. Playful banter, swearing at the top of their lungs, the sneaking of glances, taking note of everything _he_ would do in _his_ routine. Suddenly he was stuck in one portion, a memory far too repressed to put together all the way. Hands rushed to his head, gripping tight.

_“Potter”_

They were in the desert, it was cold. Both were high off their asses as always, he was uncomfortable sitting in the sand for so long, but put up with it just for _him_.

“Stop”

_“What?”_

Boris turned on his side, holding himself up on his elbow to look at _him_ better, noting how _he_ looked under the pure light of the moon. _His_ attention was still directed toward the sky, listening but not looking. This annoyed him, for whatever reason all he wanted was _his_ undivided attention.

“Please, don’t”

_“Look at me, Potter”_

_“I’m too tired to move my head, just say whatever it is you wanna say”_

The small annoyance began to grow larger, he frowned, fully sitting up at this point. With such speed he didn’t know he had, Boris crawled over to _him_ , hovering over _his_ face to blot out the sky, looking into _his_ eyes. _He_ attempted to move _his_ head around his, wanted to keep _his_ gaze starbound.

_“Boris, you’re blocking the view”_

_“I know”_

_“Then fucking move, jackass”_

_“No---”_

“Stop it”

_“---Make me”_

The images pressed on. A movie that didn’t stop. _He_ laid there in confusion, brows furrowed as _he_ tried to put together what Boris was doing. A game? _He_ wasn’t in the mood to play, but obliged regardless if it meant getting _his_ stars back. A hand shot up toward him, missing as he leaned to one side, smirking. Clearly annoyed, _he_ attempted again, only to once again miss.

_“Dude, what the fuck are you doing??”_

_“Try harder”_

_“What if I don’t want to?”_

_“Then I’m sitting here forever”_

Teeth clenched, _he_ was very annoyed now, this wasn’t the time nor the place to get smarmy, _he_ was tired and wanted to relax. Swiftly, _he_ grabbed Boris by the neck, rolling off to the side as they tumbled, soon he grabbed on too, rolling around with laughter.

“Fucking stop, _please_ ”

His fists balled up onto his head, gripping tight to his hair as he tried to block it out. He saw the two stop, once again he was on top, breathing heavily, gazing longingly at _him. He_ too breathed heavily, sweating, his glasses lost somewhere in the tussle. In that moment, he looked...beautiful. Leaning down, Boris was only inches away from _him._ His heart racing, he didn’t stop himself.

_“Boris…?”_

Finally, the image dissipated, he knew what had happened next, but it was all too much. Squeezing his eyes tight, he let out a scream, slamming down onto the floor with a loud _thud!_ The screams kept coming, painful, horrific, he was thankful nobody cared enough to check. Curling into himself, the screams changed into sobs, with tears flowing freely down his cheeks, staining the carpet with deep misery.

For a while he laid there, gripping his arms so tight he feared that skin might rip off if he continued. His agony slowly fading off into a bearable sadness, though the pain in his chest didn’t seem to wane since the beginning. Surely his throat would be shot in the morning, but he didn’t care, no tea in the world could help anyways. A recent memory floated to him again, this time he grasped it, remembering just hours before, how they had stood there, the kiss, how the taxi disappeared the further down the street it went.

The taste still lingered, though brief, he kept hold of it, wanting to make sure he never lost it.

_‘Potter may have forgot about the desert...but not me’_

His body rose up, sitting in a hunched position, eyes locked on the bed. Sheets were strewn about, never made, never had been for as long as he had known _him_. One pillow leaned so far off to the edge, threatening to fall at any time. Behind the bed frame, Boris could glimpse at the tiniest corner of wrapped newspaper, the bird, still held safe. Not with _him_ , that was the fake he so cleverly crafted. His guilt overwhelmed him, wasn’t he suffering enough? Eyes shut again, it was all too much.

_‘I need to leave, if Xandra sees me? I am a dead man’_

The issue of Xandra would be taken care of in due time, for now he had to flee. Rising to his feet, Boris gazed at the room one last time, noting the late hour of 1:30 a.m. upon the alarm clock before slinking out, shutting the door loudly behind him. Rushing out the same way he came in, his feet once again began to take him some place, it was far but he could stand the walk. Along the way, his eyes began to wander to the stars, watching the constellations. A tear strayed down his face again. There was a bird, wings spread to fly away, safe, content. He reached his hand up, wanting to catch it.

_‘You are far little bird, but I will find you, and I will keep you safe. Forever’_


End file.
